Nothing Looks Familiar

by Shawn Syms

  A quiet day hanging around the house yesterday had done wonders for his mood. They had slept in, done the Toronto Star crossword in bed together, and then sat on the front porch during an unexpected rainstorm. For the first time in ages he’d been able to relax.

  Lara waved in his face to pull him out of his reverie. “If you’re sure you don’t want to come this time, I’ll probably sleep over at Dad’s. He’ll want to stay up late playing cards, I’m sure. I’m off tomorrow anyway.” She worked four days a week as a literacy educator at a community centre and always had Mondays off.

  Lara saw her dad in Guelph for dinner every other Sunday. A rough-hewn man who’d spent forty years working at a refrigerator and freezer plant before retiring last year, he had raised Lara on his own—with some help from his own mother and two sisters—after Mrs Biscombe was killed by a drunk driver when Lara was eight. He was fiercely protective of Lara, and she was devoted to him as well. Thinking back to his work for the first time all weekend, Jake wished all fathers and daughters could have the sort of relationship that Lara had with her dad. Although Mike had been suspicious of Jake at first—accusing him of being a biker because he wore his hair long—he eventually warmed to his son-in-law.

  “Give your dad a hug for me,” he said, reaching over to steal a bite of her lasagna. When Lara spoke, her quiet voice was nearly drowned out by a honking horn followed by the clank of the bell on the passing streetcar.

  “Have you thought any more about the trip to Cuba?” On Friday night, Fausto and Reg had talked to her about their planned vacation in Havana. They wanted to see the historic city before Castro’s death. “Obama’s gonna swoop in and change everything,” Reg had declared. Fausto spoke Italian and thought he could fake his way through enough Spanish for them to move beyond the usual tourist sites and see the “real” Havana. Jake thought Fausto’s conception of the trip was overly ambitious but had to admit he never would have thought of doing this himself. Lara seemed to feed off the couple’s energy and stimulation. They both always seemed inspired—and in contrast, Jake felt flat.

  “Could be a good idea,” he told her. “I’ll have a talk with Reg about it later tonight.” Reg was the more stoic of the two men, and he was a social worker too. Jake had always found that he could relate to him better than Fausto.

  “You should give them a call tonight. Or call Jorge and go see a movie or something.”

  Jake agreed that he’d find a way to occupy himself for the evening. “I haven’t hung with Jorge in weeks,” he conceded.

  He still hadn’t mentioned Steve’s outburst or his talk with Herschel—he didn’t want to worry her, and he was trying not to think about it. But he knew she could sense things weren’t getting any better at work. She just didn’t know he might end up with lots of time for a vacation whether he liked it or not.

  Lara went inside to use the washroom while Jake put the bill on his Visa. Downing the last swallow of his now-lukewarm latte, he glanced out to the street. In the Starbucks directly across the road, Steve Woodruff sat in the front window staring back at him. In one hand he held a Frappuccino; in the other, a cell phone. As Lara came back outside to join him, Jake felt his BlackBerry vibrate in his pants pocket.

  His insides turned cold, but Jake did not acknowledge the pulsing as it repeated against his thigh. He held Lara’s hand as they walked down College Street, not looking back. When they stopped at the corner traffic light, he reached into his pocket with his other hand and discreetly held down the top button to put the device into sleep mode.

  Jake saw Lara off at the train station, kissing her goodbye, and watched as the green commuter train pulled out, its oddly shaped cars like bullets travelling in slow motion. He spent the next hour walking home slowly. His eyes focused on the sidewalk as he moved north on University Avenue, the mid-afternoon sun bearing down on his shoulders. Nearing College Street, his eyes drew upward as he approached the Hydro building, a rectangular monolith whose entire surface was comprised of giant sheets of mirrored glass. Its faceless architecture chilled him, and he cast his eyes downward again as he rounded the corner.

  Forty minutes later, Jake entered the side door of their house and made his way to the bedroom. He doffed his sweat-soaked clothes and put on a pair of PJs to lounge in. He then reached into the pocket of his jeans and took out his BlackBerry. A single message waited. He retrieved it.

  “What, you never call me anymore?” a boisterous, Portuguese-accented voice called into his ear. It was Jorge, his bud from the pool hall up the street. “I ran into Lara at the grocery last Monday, she said I oughta give you a call this weekend.” Jake saved the message without listening to the rest of it and decided not to return the call. Despite his promise to Lara, he didn’t speak to anyone else for the rest of the day, choosing instead the more low-key company of a couple of cans of Pabst and reruns of Quincy, M.E. and Columbo on the oldies cable channel. He went to bed early for the third night in a row. Sleep came quickly.

  After hours of slumber, Jake found himself slowly roused by sensations of pleasure—a low flame that started in his testes and pulled upward, buzzing warmly through his groin as he lay on his back. Through lazy eyelids, he gazed upon Lara, naked, as she slid onto his erect shaft and enveloped him within her. Still in a fog of sleep, he smiled like a drunk. Lara leaned forward and started to grind her hips up and down, taking him inside her more deeply. Her small breasts swayed. He could smell her, and it made him harder. She smiled as he began to strain inside her, then raised her head upward, closing her eyes and slowly running her index and middle fingers along either side of her wet exposed clit.

  But when she looked back down, the smile had turned into a mean sneer. Continuing to move up and down against him, Lara started to snort with disgust. Her laughter grew until it filled the room, mocking him. Jake felt confusion and shame. As she pointed at his face and shrieked even louder, he swiftly raised his left fist and struck her hard. He felt and heard the cartilage in her nose snap as his knuckles connected with her face.

  Lara leaned forward, then froze, a glazed look of mute shock spreading across her face. Both her nostrils instantly reddened; blood began to spurt from her nose in a quickening drip. The red liquid poured out of each nostril, conjoining in a single stream that poured directly onto the thick black hairs of Jake’s chest, matting them like oil paint.

  Jake trembled as he lay on his side and began to weep in silence. He had never raised a hand to Lara in real life—he rarely even raised his voice to her. He couldn’t imagine hurting her physically—but this wasn’t the first time he’d had this puzzling dream. One thing was different this time—the look on her face before she began to howl in laughter. It was identical to the hateful leer he’d seen on Steve Woodruff’s face. Tears trickled from his left eye over his nose and dripped onto the sheet, and he began to shake his head and rock his body from side to side, now sobbing aloud. He realized he was completely alone, and it didn’t matter how much noise he made.

  His heart pounded in his ears, and he felt like he might lose control of his bowels. Jake cried until his face and throat hurt, then picked up the phone to call in sick. Talking to rapists was just not an option today. In fact, he wondered if he could ever do it again.

  After sleeping in late, Jake brewed a pot of organic coffee. For the time being, he tried not to think about work—he knew he’d have some explaining to do with Herschel, and he wasn’t completely sure what to say. Never mind the question of his future at the agency, but he’d also be missing half of his one-on-one sessions with the offenders, which were scheduled for today and tomorrow.

  Sitting at the wooden kitchen table Lara’s dad had made, he let his mind wander and allowed the nutty aroma wafting up from his mug to tweak his nostrils awake. Through the window into the backyard, he saw his neighbour Fausto crouched down in the yard next door. Tying the sash on his navy housecoat, Jake got up and went outside. As he approached, he could see sweat glistening atop the large man’s balding head. />
  Fausto was a freelance editor with a flexible schedule, which allowed him to pick the tomatoes in his garden whenever he pleased. He placed the ripe, red one in his hand into a wooden basket next to him. Wiping his hand on an oversized orange T-shirt, he stood up to shake Jake’s hand.

  “How’s it going, Jake?”

  “I’ve been better. Taking a mental-health day. Work’s been getting me down.”

  “Yeah, I’ve gotten that sense. You need a job like mine. My biggest client is a law firm that specializes in homeless clients. I help people, but without getting my hands dirty, sitting alone in my den.” A smile crossed his round face.

  Jake changed the subject. “Lara says you’ve been doing a lot of planning for this Cuba trip.”

  “Well, I’ve been spending more non-billable hours than I should looking up information on Havana online. Did you know there’s more than one Havana?”

  Jake gave him a quizzical look.

  “You learn these things when you do Internet research,” Fausto continued, warming to his subject. “As one might suspect, there’s a city in Florida named after Cuba’s capital. But the one that surprised me was Havana, Arkansas.”

  Jake smirked in surprise, wondering if there might also be a Havana, PEI, as well.

  “There are 392 people in Havana, Arkansas—and not one of them is black. In the heart of the Deep South. I’m not sure how safe we’d be visiting there.”

  Jake wasn’t sure if Fausto was referring to being gay—or the fact that his partner Reg was of African descent. He simply nodded. He wasn’t sure what to say next, but was rescued by a loud rapping that sounded like it was coming from his own front door.

  “Got to run, big guy. Talk to you again soon.”

  Jake re-entered the house and headed toward the front door. He stepped out onto the front porch. Steve Woodruff sat a few feet away in Lara’s wicker chair.

  Steve stood, seeming woozy and unsteady on his feet. “You sure walk slow,” he said. Jake noticed a few splotches of blood at the bottom of Steve’s untucked shirt and the front of his corduroy pants. One splotch was shaped like a kidney.

  Jake stared at him wordlessly, as the smell of liquor wafted toward him. He twitched, his face reddening with anger.

  “I followed you home from the train station yesterday,” Steve explained. “Didn’t think you’d ever get here. I’m a sneaky bastard, huh?”

  “Why are you here, Steve?”

  Steve made a show of looking at his watch. “I didn’t want to be late for my eleven o’clock.” He hiccupped, then belched. “You told us that we’re never going to get better if we don’t get responsible, remember?” The drunk raised one exaggerated eyebrow like a sideshow mime, then burst out laughing.

  Jake waited for Steve’s manic snicker to subside. Then he spoke in a tranquil tone, as if counselling a man standing on a skyscraper’s windowsill to come back inside. Except that he felt as if he were the man on the ledge.

  “Steve, you don’t have to report in today. I called in sick. Didn’t Genevieve call to let you know? She’ll reschedule you for later in the week. Nothing to worry about.”

  “I haven’t been home all morning. And I wasn’t at my shit job either.” Steve responded to the kinder-sounding fake Jake by affecting a sing-sing tone in his own voice: “Not at home, not at work! Nowhere to be found!” He listed forward for a moment before recapturing his balance. Steve stared into Jake’s eyes without blinking, then spoke again.

  “I followed Roger home Friday night after group.” Steve put one hand into his pants pocket. “And I went to visit the fucking pedophile creep this morning too.”

  Steve’s tone hardened. “I wanted him to know what it feels like … Didn’t want to deal with his screams, so I hit him on the head first. With this,” he said, pulling a short black revolver from his pocket. You dirty fucking faggot rapist, Jake thought reflexively, all his sensitivity training out the window. He gazed at Steve as neutrally as he could manage and waited.

  Steve held the weapon up by the barrel rather than aiming it. With his other hand, he gestured toward the handle. “See, no blood. I only hit him hard enough to knock him out.” he said. “‘This one’s for little Sarah,’ I told him.”

  Steve continued to stare at the revolver in his hand as if dazzled by it until he was interrupted by a voice from behind him. Lara stood there on the porch steps.

  “Steve, what are you doing here?” she asked.

  Jake and Steve both said her name at the same time.

  “Lara,” Steve repeated. “I’m going back to jail.” Steve lowered the gun to his side. His body quivered in a drunken crying jag. Lara stared at him in silence.

  “I need to go back in,” he said to her with finality. “Help me?”

  He dropped the gun. It hit the grey-painted planks of the floor with a heavy thud but did not go off. Steve stretched his arms out to Lara. She approached Steve and placed one arm around his sodden, convulsing frame. After a long minute, she sat him down in a chair. Lara took her cell out of her pocket and phoned 9-1-1.

  The cop car had pulled away a few minutes earlier. Jake recounted Steve’s confession to the officers, and one of them sent an ambulance to pick up Roger Collins and take him to the hospital. “Roger had been making a lot of progress before now,” Jake told the officers. Neither seemed interested.

  Lara stepped back onto the front porch. She sat next to Jake on the steps, setting a red knapsack down beside her. He took her hand, solid where his was limp.

  “How do you know Steve Woodruff?” he asked her.

  “He bags groceries at the No Frills. I had no idea he was one of your clients.” She paused. “I’ve talked to him while cashing out a few times. He seemed really sweet.”

  Jake turned away.

  “He asked me out on a date.”

  “That scumbag. What did you say?”

  “It was nice to get the attention.”

  Jake squeezed Lara’s hand and then stroked her cheek. “Lara, Hersch wants me to take some time off. Do you still want to take that trip to—”

  “We need time apart.” She faced him. “We’re going through the motions—and you haven’t even noticed.” Jake was unresponsive.

  “I’m going back to Dad’s. I’ve taken the rest of the week off work. Call you after that.” Picking up her knapsack, she stepped off the porch and walked away.

  Jake watched as Laura moved down the street and out of sight. He got up, went in the house, walked into the bedroom, and closed the door. He removed his clothes and lay on the bed. “Fuck,” he said, and waited for the tears to come.

  Get Brenda Foxworthy

  I got off the blue Niagara Transit bus and crossed the road, entering the yard behind Simcoe Street Public School. Walking alone at night put me on edge. The schoolyard was empty, and I felt so nervous.

  God fucking damn it. Rickie told me she’d be here a half-hour ago. Leaning against the fence, I pinched my arm as punishment for swearing, though I hadn’t even said it out loud. Tapped out a nervous rhythm on the pile of dusty pebbles under my discount-store sneaker. Sweat broke out on my brow, courtesy of the late summer humidity weighing down the air, even in early evening. Wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. Tonight, we were going to do something outrageous, like nothing I’d ever dared before.

  The three of us agreed to meet behind the elementary school, to draw as little attention as possible. Where could be quieter than the backyard of a grade school in August, especially this late at night? We all worked at the Village, but Preet had the night free to take his mom and dad to a temple in St. Catharines for some Hindu holiday. Rickie’s shift ended at nine o’clock, and she promised she’d hurry over. Preet would pick us up before ten, as soon as he was back in Niagara Falls. I thought about where we were going: Brenda Foxworthy’s house. There wasn’t sufficient skin on both my arms to pinch myself enough times for all the swearing that nasty girl’s name inspired in me. For once I wanted to do more than just swear.
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  I was off work because Ed hadn’t scheduled me any shifts at all that weekend. What a prick. I pinched my arm again, wishing my boss wasn’t so good-looking. Ed managed us parking-lot attendants at Maple Leaf Village amusement park every summer. Nineteen and a typical macho jock, he was in the law-and-security program at Niagara College. You got the feeling he liked being in charge. He also liked to wear tight shirts that showed off his arms and chest, both of which possessed wiry spirals of manly hair. When he wasn’t ruling the roost at work, I would see him trolling around Clifton Hill in his white Trans Am. Checking out the chicks, I guessed. He was ridiculously proud of that stupid car and bragged to all the guys at work about it.

  I was pissed about the time off. I needed that summer job. Not all of us have rich dads to pay for school clothes, let alone shiny white cars. When he saw me looking at the schedule in the office yesterday, Ed came up to me with a fake-looking smile and patted me on the shoulder. “Sorry about that, buddy. Too many guys on the team this year, I can’t fit everybody in every single weekend.”

  His firm hand on my shoulder had caused some stirring in my underwear, but I willed my groin back under control. What a phony. Ed was not my “buddy” at all. One time, when he and I were alone in the office and I complained about having to work late, he actually put me into a headlock with my face in his armpit till I said “uncle.” I remembered the smell—and the shame. The scent I secretly liked, the feeling of defeat I sure didn’t. I never told anyone. Ed had pet names for all the parking guys; to my face, he called me Supermodel because I’m thin. I knew he called me “Dean the Queen” behind my back. Then again, who didn’t? Preet and Rickie, that’s who.

  If there’s one thing the three of us never spoke about, it was anything related to sex. Maybe that made us atypical eleventh graders, but for each of us the topic was a sore spot. Rickie was a loner who only had male friends. She and Preet played basketball together. “Rick’s just one of the guys,” Preet had explained once. “I basically treat her a hundred percent like a bro—the only thing we don’t do alike is use the same washroom.” I’d never seen her use a bathroom at all, in fact.